


for old time's sake

by lostnfound14



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (For a second), F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Oneshot, also peter spider mans it up one last time, because FUCK THAT, but without the radioactive jizz and dead mj, it's more just old peter and mj being soft, old age AU, spider man reign inspired me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23736409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostnfound14/pseuds/lostnfound14
Summary: It’s been forty years.Forty years since Peter Parker renounced Spider-Man (to Michelle, and to his three-year-old daughter, in secret).But on the day of their 45th anniversary, Peter witnesses the beginnings of a bank robbery and can't just stand idle.MJ is not happy.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35





	for old time's sake

**Author's Note:**

> One-half Spider-Man, and one-half Spideychelle, this piece is a hopefully pleasant look into the distant future of Peter Parker and his marriage to Michelle. It has taken me so long to come up with an idea for a story, but I'll get into that later. Until then, I hope you enjoy this fic, and if you do, leave kudos and a comment to show just how much!

It’s been forty years. 

Forty years since Peter Parker renounced Spider-Man (to Michelle, and to his three-year-old daughter, in secret).

Coincidentally, today is his and MJ’s forty-fifth anniversary. As they got older, they stopped caring about going out to a nice restaurant or something of the like. Or rather, MJ stopped caring and by proxy, so did Peter. He loves her eternally, and sometimes that means making sacrifices. So sometimes, their celebrations are as simple as a bottle of wine and a nice dinner. Or maybe a cup of tea at Michelle’s favorite cafe. 

On a memorable occasion in the early days of their marriage, probably their first anniversary, Peter remembers swinging her up to the top of a building with a beautiful view of all of Manhattan and a candlelit dinner waiting for them. MJ had looked at him with windswept hair and widened eyes, and said, “Peter, I love you, but I’m serious when I say this is the last time I’m going swinging with you.”

“We still have to go back home,” he’d said smugly. “Unless you want to take the stairs down and walk.” She’d rolled her eyes, not able to help a smirk, and kissed him gently before sitting down on the blanket he’d set up. 

Now they’re almost seventy, and just as the years had gone, so had Peter’s penchant for posturing. And on this fine Friday night, Peter has picked up a bouquet and a bottle of wine for himself and MJ to share. 

It’s on his way back home after acquiring both things that he hears a curious sound – whimpering, coupled with the aggravated yelling of a man, ordering someone to give him money. Peter’s enhanced hearing isn’t the same as it was all those years ago, but like a beacon, he hones in on the bank across the street. Sure enough, there’s a gang of men dressed in all black, holding guns and standing menacingly in front of a teller, a young woman who looks particularly terrified.

Peter doesn’t even hesitate. He slowly jogs (because that’s all he can manage) into the closest alley, tears his suit out of his messenger bag, and puts it on over his clothes; everything except his shoes, which he kicks off and leaves in a pile with his bag and bottle of wine. The bouquet, he webs to the wall once he has the suit on. He spares a moment to grimace at the ruined flowers. 

“Sorry, honey,” he mutters, before making his way back out of the alley. When he steps out, some people stop in their tracks to look at him. Some of them are too young to know who he is, but a few of the more aged pedestrians gasp in surprise and stare at him, gaping.

“Oh my God,” he hears a woman say. _“Spider-Man?”_

Peter nods cordially at her and proceeds to launch himself across the street. 

After that, he hears shouts and cheers erupt from all directions. A rush of nostalgia surges through Peter as he lands on the bank’s corner. You see, he could have made a dramatic entrance, breaking through the glass as he flew toward it, and webbing ‘em all up in a matter of seconds, but that would have been murder on his knees. 

Peter lands as gracefully as a senior citizen can land after flying fifty feet through the air. He turns and offers a wave to his observers. He has captured the attention of the entire intersection; some cars have stopped in the middle of the street, causing a wave of honks to be slammed out by more than a few drivers.

With that, Peter turns and pushes the door open, making his way toward the thugs. There are five of them, and none of them have noticed him yet, but the poor teller looks at him out of the corner of her eye. She doesn’t say anything, and for that, Peter offers her a wink. 

“Sorry to cut this party short, boys, but, uh…”

Five masked heads turn toward him in confusion. “Who the hell are you?” One of them dares to ask. 

“Now, now,” Peter chuckles. “Is that any way to talk to one of your elders?” He shoots a web at one of the men’s pistols, yanking it toward him and crushing it in his fist when he catches it. 

After that, they aren’t so slow to react. “We’ll light you the fuck up, Grandpa!” One of them yells. 

They all point their guns at him, hands steady and certainly ready to shoot. Peter mocks the stance of a cowboy with his hand hovering over an imaginary holster. “Feels like a Western,” he jokes. “I always loved those movies, ya know.”

One of them shoots. Peter easily dodges out of the way, leaning slightly to the left. He shoots a web at the man with the smoking gun, incapacitating him by launching him at the far wall.

“Didn’t your mothers teach you stealing was bad? A pretty benchmark lesson, I gotta say.” Another shot rings out, but Peter ducks. “Since I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you rascals off with a little spanking.” 

After that, the thugs start to empty their clips at him. Shot after shot rings out, but Peter sees in bullet-time, making a mad dash for the wall. Peter seeks a projectile as the gunshots follow him along the wall, and his eyes settle on a chair nearly hidden in a cubicle. Peter slings it forward with his arm and it bowls over two of the thugs. 

As Peter finishes his arc along the wall, instead of the sounds of bullets, he hears the click of empty magazines. He grins as he runs toward the remaining two thugs, who are visibly despaired. Peter can nearly smell it. 

The one he’s running toward freezes in fear. Peter leaps and extends his right leg forward, tucking his left under it and feeling like the hero he once was as he soars through the air. 

Peter’s outstretched foot makes clean contact with the thug’s face, sending him flying backward and landing on his back. He’s out cold. 

Peter lands gracefully, sparing a moment to admire his handiwork. Then he turns to the one remaining thug, who is now cowering in front of him. “Please don’t…” the man begs.

“Don’t steal,” Peter reiterates, before securing him against the wall with a web, rendering him immobile.

Peter observes the scene: five men out-cold on the walls and floor, guns strewn about, and himself right in the middle of it. It reminds him of the old days.

“Holy shit,” breathes the teller. “Thank you so much, sir.”

Peter walks up to her booth, leaning casually against the desk. “My pleasure, miss.” He looks back at the damage he created, and, turning to the teller, asks, “You got a pen?”

“Yeah,” she says, handing it to him through the partition. Peter rips a check out of a nearby cabinet, scribbling on the back of it. When he finishes, he observes his handiwork.

_Sorry about the damage. You’ve got a lovely teller. Sincerely, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man._

Peter slips it under the glass, and says to the teller, “Show this to your boss.” She nods gratefully. “Have a good night,” he adds as he jogs out of the bank. The second he makes it back out, there are already people surrounding him.

“Who are you?” Some of them ask. Others ask, “Are you back for good, Spider-Man?” All of them have their phones out, taking pictures and videos of him. 

“No time to catch up. Sorry, folks,” Peter simply responds. He jumps into the air, and swinging comes as naturally as it did forty years ago. He snakes around the surrounding blocks to throw people off of his trail, then returns to the alley where his belongings are stored. 

He cringes at the sight of the crushed bouquet again. MJ won’t be happy. Oh, God, what’s she going to say when he gets home? There’s no way she didn’t hear about his dramatic return. 

As Peter stuffs the suit back into his bag, he decides that he will cross that bridge when he gets to it. He pulls the bouquet off the wall and throws his pack over his shoulder, picking up the bag with the bottle of wine, already beginning to rehearse what he’s going to tell MJ.

Pushing the door open with his foot, Peter heaves a deep sigh as he finally crosses the threshold into his and MJ’s apartment. It’s eerily silent, save for the mumbling of the TV in the living room. Peter knows she’s back from work – she used to spend hours overtime at the Bugle, but over the years she’s had to compensate for her perpetual exhaustion as she’s aged. The editor-in-chief position also allows her plenty of time off.

Peter sets down his things, including his bag, on the dining table. “Honey, I’m home,” he calls out into the quiet apartment. He gets no response. 

MJ’s curls catch his eye, and he sees her sitting in her chair, watching the TV with a lazy expression on her face. Peter makes his way to her, but before he can lean down and kiss her on the cheek, he notices what’s on the news.

It’s him. Or, rather, it’s Spider-Man. There’s a video of him fighting the thugs in the bank, zipping around just like he used to do when he was younger, with a voiceover from the newscaster (MJ’s favorite) describing just what went down.

“Look at him go,” MJ finally says. Her voice is hoarse.

“MJ,” he says softly, looking down at her, hoping she’ll meet his eye.

She doesn’t. 

“I had to do _something,”_ he says in her silence. “They were going to–”

“We agreed on this, Peter,” she interrupts. He lets her continue. “We agreed, all those years ago, that you wouldn’t put the suit on again. You _promised_ me.” Her refusal to make eye contact stings a bit more with her words to accompany it.

Peter picks up the remote from the armrest of her chair and turns the TV off. He walks around her chair so that he stands in front of her, then kneels down so that their eyes are level. “I didn’t think, MJ. I’m sorry.” He looks into her eyes, and sees that they are glistening, a bit puffy.

“You could have _died_ , Pete,” she says, struggling over the word. “Those men could have shot you dead ten times over.”

Peter tries for a smile. “But they didn't,” he says. It falls flat, with MJ just sighing disappointedly. “I couldn’t just stand there, honey,” he continues, his smile falling. “And I’m not hurt. I’m untouched. Those suckers couldn’t have nicked me if they tried.”

The corner of MJ’s mouth pulls microscopically upward.

Peter reaches for her right hand with his left, and she lifts it so that he can wrap his fingers around her palm. He moves her hand to his chest right above his heart. Peter feels it pound against her hand, and sees MJ soften at the sensation. 

“I’m still here, darling,” he says, his voice toeing the line between a whisper and a mumble. MJ nods, taking in a deep breath as she does so. 

As they look into each other’s eyes, Peter gets a taste of the connection they’ve built over the many years they’ve been together. At this point, Peter may know MJ better than she knows herself, and vice versa.

She leans forward toward him, and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. Peter smiles as she pulls away. Then she wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls his head into her chest. Peter snakes his arms around her waist and melts into her touch. In moments like these, they understand each other. Peter begins to feel the terror she had when she watched the news earlier, seeing him narrowly dodging bullets and quipping it up like he was in his 20s again. MJ feels his fading adrenaline, and his obligation to help even when he doesn’t have to.

“I wish you weren’t so damn responsible all the time,” she mutters into his hair. 

Peter smiles. “Old habits die hard.”

Normally, he would be content to simply stay like this for however long she wants to hold him, but there’s a bouquet of wilting flowers and a bottle of wine waiting for them on the dining table, so he slowly unwraps himself from MJ’s embrace and stands himself up using the arms of her chair. 

She looks up at him curiously, but takes his hand when he offers it, and stands up too. After all these years, she’s still got an inch on him. She never lets him forget it.

“Happy anniversary,” he says. He delights in the way her jaw drops just a little bit, and her eyes fill with some of the youthfulness they used to exhibit. “I got you a bouquet, but, ah, let’s just say it got flattened.”

MJ bites her lip to contain a grin. “You absolute dumbass,” she says.

“You have a point, but I got a killer bottle of wine that I hope makes up for it.” 

MJ rolls her eyes. “The last time I heard someone refer to a bottle of wine as ‘killer’ was in college.”

Peter chuckles. “I asked the wine guy. He said this one was worth writing home about.”

“Well,” MJ huffs, “we need something to eat first. And I am _not_ cooking tonight.” 

“How do you feel about pizza?” Peter asks, wrapping his arms around her waist again and gently swaying her around the living room. MJ is quick to entwine her hands at the back of his neck.

“Vegetarian,” she declares, as she moves in tandem with him.

“Meatlovers,” he argues, squeezing her waist a bit tighter.

“Half-and-half,” she compromises.

“Deal,” Peter says, leaning upward to gently kiss MJ’s lips. She kisses back for a moment, but gently pushes him away.

“Call it in, ya big dork,” she says, smirking.

“Yes, ma’am.” 

When the pizza comes, MJ manages two slices and leaves the rest to Peter, who happily devours both the meatlovers half and the remaining two vegetarian slices. MJ makes up for her lack of appetite with several glasses of wine. Over the years, Peter’s metabolism has slowed down, so he has two glasses himself, glad to finally feel a buzz. While MJ wouldn’t exactly say the wine is worth “writing home about,” she will drunkenly admit that it’s been one of Peter’s better selections. He holds that over her head for the rest of the night, and it takes another lengthy kiss before they lie down in bed to get him to shut up about it.

Sleep that night comes easily after they say their “I love you”s, with Peter’s arm securing MJ against him by the waist. Peter may or may not dream about his golden days as Spider-Man, but he’s more thankful for the experience than he is wistful that those days are gone. 

After all, he’s got all he needs right there in his arms, breathing steadily and reminding him there are people who love Peter Parker too.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I hope you liked that! I had a lot of fun writing this, to be honest. Old Man Peter is something that I think could be explored deeper (and in some very fun ways). So like I said, I'd get into my writer's block - if you're willing to read this, of course. Once I heard that schools would be closing due to CoViD-19, I thought, sweet, more time to write! Then my brain said, "Wrong." I swear, for a particular idea I wrote 6,000 words and ended up scrapping the whole thing because I had no idea where to take it. I'm holding onto the ideas for the future when I hopefully find more inspiration, but until then they are simply brainchildren waiting to be hatched. I'm so sorry to keep you guys waiting, and I hope this piece was worth that wait! Leave kudos and a comment if you so please. Until the next!


End file.
